There is a canine who never has been free.
This little doggie is just yearning now to pee.
And in your life there simply has to be
someone who will walk the doggie.

You know full well the someone needn’t be you
and you are aware that you hate the smell of poo
but this is an act somebody has to do.
Someone will have to walk the doggie.

The doggie must be walked; it’s a truth as old as time.
Her biological urges are required; they are prime
and must be satisfied. If it’s not done, it’s a crime.
She needs to stretch her legs, either downhill or through climb
-ing.

And so you take her out with a leash and with a bag
and then you find it’s raining and your spirits seem to sag
and you find your pet resistant; to move her you need to drag
– but still, somehow, you need to walk the doggie.

So even though she’s mini, all your force you need to pull
this teeny tiny terror, whose intransigence is full
-y on display today but your eyes are full of wool
and you insist that you will succeed in walking the doggie.

You will have walked your damn dog even if you die in trying.
The attempt is everything, in the pushing, in the prying.
There is pride in the effort; valiance in the vying.
You will walk that damn dog, or you will end up dying.
Yep, it turns out that you will just end up dying.
Such a shame that you have ended up just dying.